Page 22 of Good Days Bad Days

Greg

Playboy Club-Hotel, VIP Room

Lake Geneva, Wisconsin

Mark and I are escorted to the table by a curvaceous woman in a black satin corset, a white collar with a black tie, wrists encased in shirt cuffs, a grapefruit-sized white poof on her perky rear end, and a pair of drooping bunny ears on her head.

Mark raises his eyebrows and whispers something untoward, which I pretend not to hear.

The petite brunette wears a ribbon name tag pinned at her hip at the top curve of her high-cut leotard that reads “Jessica.” A warmth floods through me that makes me keep my eyes to the floor.

“Where are you from, sweetheart?” Mark asks her as we dodge between tables filled with mostly middle-aged men and a few younger guys who likely think the Bunnies will ignore the strict rules and hand over their number if they show up enough or tip well.

“You know, around,” she says, and I can tell it’s a question she answers often.

“Well, that’s fun. I’m from around, too.”

Jessica giggles demurely, and I think he actually caught her off guard with his humor. “Maybe I’ll see you there next time I’m in town,” she teases.

“Sure hope so,” Mark says, approaching the table of seven men and one woman.

“You two get settled and I’ll send Tammy over to get your drink order, OK, hon?” she asks as she wiggles her Bunny tail back to her hostess station.

“My God, I love my job right now,” Mark says, eyes locked on Jessica until she disappears into the dim, crowded room.

“Behave yourself,” I say, pulling out the chair next to Martha where she’d saved me a seat.

“I’ll do my best, but no promises,” Mark agrees, locating his seat on the opposite side of the large round table, next to Hollinger, a representative from the EBN head office, and another man in a boss suit too busy chain-smoking to say anything.

Martha doesn’t acknowledge my arrival at first. She’s already in conversation with Jerry Bartholomew from Jerry’s Shoes.

He’s in his fifties and his bloodshot eyes and reddened cheeks make it clear that the drink in front of him isn’t his first. Martha is laughing, tossing her head back like she’s learned how to be a socialite overnight.

A twinge hits between my shoulder blades when I watch her interact with the businessmen.

To my left is Tony Caveola, owner of a chain of Italian restaurants. He’s already a sponsor for The Classy Homemaker. It’s on me to get him to expand his advertising dollars to the sinking ship of Janesville Presents . . .

“My God, these women are gorgeous,” he says, taking a sip of his whiskey neat.

His voice sounds raspy, like he smokes more than a few packs a day.

I try to follow his eyeline to see which of the Bunnies he’s staring at, but the air is thick with cigarette smoke, and the dim lights turn every Bunny into a runway model. “Ever been before?”

“To the club? No. I . . .” I don’t tell him the truth—that I’ve never enjoyed this kind of joint. “It’s a bit of a trek.”

“What, an hour from Janesville? You’re a single guy. What do you have keeping you at home?”

I’m happily a homebody, but that image won’t do for impressing the men here tonight. I glance at Martha, sipping on a glass of pink champagne and looking nearly as lovely as the Bunnies. If she can play a part tonight, so can I.

“Mark and I have been meaning to take a trip. He’s thinking of applying for a key.”

“That’s great. Why not, you know? My wife would kill me, otherwise I’d be right there with you two. But as for tonight—what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her, right?”

A new Bunny in a blue satin corset and matching ears drops off my drink. The busty auburn-haired waitress takes Tony’s order for the next round with a slight southern accent that leaves him tittering.

“That accent,” he says, shaking his head like he’s heard the voice of God. I take a sip of my scotch and the nip hits me almost instantly. I’ll need it tonight. I take a deep breath and ask the first question that comes to mind.

“How do you like WQRX’s programming this fall?”

Tony raises his eyebrows and gulps down a mouthful of whiskey.

“It’s all right. Local TV is its own breed. No one hustles to get home in time for local news, or what is that show with all the losers from the town? My wife and I saw it the other night and laughed our guts out.”

My shoulders stiffen and I take another drink, knowing he’s talking about Janesville Presents . . . I hold still, hoping Tony won’t notice my irritation. My God, I hope Martha didn’t hear that.

“But there’s one show she won’t shut up about.

The one with the hot blonde making food and cleaning house.

I saw it when I got the flu last month and had to stay home from work.

My wife loves that girl, and I gotta say—I didn’t mind watching her on the TV either.

Sweet thing. Was hoping she’d be here tonight . . .”

“She’s just talent,” I say, a protective twinge hitting my shoulders again, this time over Betty. Behind us a jazz trio starts to play their version of Patsy Cline’s waltzy “She’s Got You.” Some of the men from the other tables wander onto the parquet floor with their companions.

“Yeah, makes sense. She’s definitely too sophisticated to be in a place like this. Was already surprised the one next to you was here. Is she someone’s younger sister?”

“Martha is my producer, actually.” When I say her name, she turns in my direction. She’s smiling and seems to be pleased to see me.

“Greg! There you are. We were just talking about you.”

“So were we,” I say, gesturing to asshole Tony.

“Well, look at that,” she says, putting out her slender hand. “I might as well introduce myself since I already know who you are, Mr. Caveola. I’m Martha Smith. Greg and I produce The Classy Homemaker and Janesville Presents . . .”

Tony’s eyes widen as he realizes he’s been shit talking my show right to my face, and then he laughs and hits me in the shoulder as though I’m in on the joke.

“Damn fine shows you’ve got going on.”

“Why, thank you, Mr. Caveola.”

“Tony. You should call me Tony,” he says, taking Martha’s hand and squeezing it. “Wanna take this conversation onto the dance floor?” Tony asks Martha as she’s trying to tell him about all the changes we’re making on Janesville Presents . . .

Martha looks at me like she’s asking my advice. I’d rather choke on my drink garnish than dance with that asshole, but I get why she’s considering it. Dancing with Tony could get him on our side. Then, the other advertisers might consider sponsoring us, too.

“Why you looking at this guy? Is he your boyfriend or something?”

“No,” we both say in unison. “No,” she says again.

“Then what do you say?” Caveola puts out his hand, the song changing in the background. She takes it and doesn’t look at me this time. Damn. This is unfair to Martha.

I finish my drink and watch as Martha sways to the rhythm of the band’s rendition of “I’ve Been Loving You Too Long” while Tony shuffles from foot to foot.

I glance around the room at the half-toasted businessmen in various levels of formal dress and the few tagalong women who came with husbands or lovers.

At our table, Mark looks bored but locked into a conversation with Hollinger and Quinton Florence from EBN.

I’m sure he wishes he was on the dance floor or trying to flirt with one of the Bunnies.

The room has a different vibe than I expected.

The Bunnies are friendly and beautiful but nothing more than that.

A short blond Bunny in a pink satin corset catches my eye.

She has her back to me, taking orders from a table in the far corner of the dim room.

A man wearing a dark suit keeps taking advantage of his seated position, her Bunny tail right at eye level.

He flicks it every time she looks away and then winks at the man to his side.

She stays professional and cool, ignoring his behavior as she makes notes on a napkin.

Then, when she turns away, the older man grabs her ass cheek with a rough squeeze, the flash of an expensive golden watch peeking out from under his shirtsleeve.

The Bunny doesn’t yelp like I expect her to, which is telling in and of itself.

How often must she put up with this sort of violation?

The rules must be strict on keeping quiet and not insulting the patrons.

Though she doesn’t verbally protest, she does move away smoothly and swiftly, like it’s a step in a well-practiced choreography.

The two men elbow each other, and the older one reenacts the grab in midair as the woman walks away.

She seems cool and collected, but maybe it’s a sign of her nerves that she drops her pen.

She bends at the knees and dips to the ground, snagging it, then stands, smoothing the fabric at her abdomen and scanning the room to see if anyone noticed.

I should avert my gaze, look away so she doesn’t think I’m ogling her like the rest of the men, but I’m so far across the room and it’s dark, so it’s not likely she can see me.

But then she tilts her head over her bare shoulder, revealing her face.

She looks directly at me, as though I’m the only man in the entire room.

My heart stops.

I know that girl.

The lashes and blue eyeshadow are different, the ears and the black tights as well. But her eyes, those I can’t forget, literally cannot no matter how hard I’ve tried.

“Betty?” I whisper to myself, half rising from my seat, wondering if I’m seeing things. She rushes through a curtained exit, leaving me in a state of puzzlement.

“You owe me a dance,” Martha says, tugging at my bicep. Tony is back at the table with another drink in hand. Hollinger orders another round as the music slows.

“I’m not much of a dancer,” I say, looking past Martha toward the mystic partition where the girl who looks like Betty disappeared.

“I don’t really care,” she says, yanking on my arm.